


daffodils between my teeth

by rosebarsoap



Category: Gravity Falls
Genre: Gen, Hanahaki Disease
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-16
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-12 14:56:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,537
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19231411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosebarsoap/pseuds/rosebarsoap
Summary: "Hanahaki disease, the healer called it; meaning “to throw up flowers”. It starts when someone falls in love, but their feelings are... unrequited. The affected spits flowers until their beloved returns their feelings, but in some cases, the feelings remain one- sided, assumedly spelling sure doom for the lovesickened one."(TW: emetophobia - mentions of puking throughout, but no actual vomit.)





	daffodils between my teeth

You don’t pay any mind to the cough you contracted until you start producing flower petals along with it.  


It’s not a _huge_ deal at first. A petal here and there when you clear your throat, ones you can easily hold in your fist and toss away before anyone notices.  


And by anyone, you mean your boss.  


As soon as you took the job as his assistant, you had... feelings. Feelings that you had to suppress as soon as you felt them bubbling, because _damn it you got this perfect job and you’re not gonna ruin it by getting a crush on your boss._  


But then he laughs, laughs in that quintessential Ford Pines way, all doubled-over and closed eyes and even a _snort_ and when you cough and find your palm full of petals, you know something is in too deep. (And it’s obviously you, but you refuse to believe that.)  


So you hide it. It only happens a few times— he laughs, smiles, spouts some fancy nerd jargon in that passion-driven tone of his, and it makes you hack up flowers. It’s manageable. At first.  


It started over the summer, where everyone writes off the flower petals in the trash cans as fallen from trees or stuck to clothes when you come in from exploring the forest. As the leaves fade from emerald to amber and the flowers start to fade from view, you have to take better care to hide the petals when your summertime excuse disappears in the fall. You worry, at first; they’ll become a distraction from your work, you’ll be too busy hiding them to focus, someone finds them and you’re reprimanded, or worse, fired.  


Thankfully, Ford doesn’t notice. It’s his coworker that catches you.  


Fiddleford comes into the bathroom as you lift your head from the bowl of the toilet, and you both startle simultaneously. He rushes over to you before you get a chance to swipe at the handle and hide the evidence; the smattering of petals float in the water at the base of the bowl and Fiddleford crouches down, where you sprawl on the floor after you collapsed just in time to catch everything in the toilet. Not that flowers would really be a mess, but still; it’s become more violent reactions now, puking them up instead of the occasional cough. You sigh, and one last petal pops out of your mouth. Fiddleford looks astounded, but mostly, he looks _sad._  


“... Is this why you’ve been so outta sorts recently?”  


You nod, meek and defeated. Telling him that you’re fine earns an adamant shake of the head from your colleague, and he tentatively puts a hand on your shoulder.  


“How long have ya had this goin’ on?”  


Weeks. Months. You can’t bring yourself to be honest. It’s been going for... a while, you tell him. His shoulders droop in shock.  


“Do you know what this is? I gather you know pukin’ up flower petals ain’t exactly _normal,_ even for ‘round here.”  
Fiddleford helps you to your feet and you lead him to the living room, admitting that no, you didn’t know what it is. You did some research (and promptly hid the book in your bag after you checked it out from the library), but only came up with one lead — a myth, some sort of backwards legend explained in a lovesick sorceress’s traveling journal about the dashing gunslinger who never returned her feelings.

> _“Hanahaki disease, the healer called it; meaning “to throw up flowers”. It starts when someone falls in love, but their feelings are... unrequited. The affected spits flowers until their beloved returns their feelings, but in some cases, the feelings remain one- sided, assumedly spelling sure doom for the lovesickened one. I want to explain to Percival why I am sick, but I fear he knows of the disease... And will tell me his true feelings if I share mine.”_

“Ah, yeah... I’ve heard’a this,” Fiddleford muses, skimming the rest of the page with careful eyes. “I was hopin’ it wasn’t this, but it all checks out. Someone falls in love, but don’t think their feelings are requited, so they’re pukin’ up flowers until their loved one says they love ‘em, or...”  


You swallow thickly. Fiddleford looks sidelong at you and frowns, closing the book and putting it up on the bookshelf next to the couch.  


“Ah, if you don’t mind... Who do you...?”  


Nobody, nothing, no one he knows, you persist— and then Ford walks through the front door.  


It’s raining outside, according to his soaked-through coat over one arm and the similarly soaked-through shirt that clings to his skin, opaque at his waist and transparent on his shoulders and chest. Ford runs a hand through his hair and smiles sheepishly; from here you can see the muscle shift under his shirt when he moves his arm.  


“Didn’t realize the skies would open while I was out,” he says, shutting the door and hanging his coat up on the rack. “At least the journal’s dry.”  


You feel them burst from your throat into your mouth and you quickly excuse yourself, dashing back to the bathroom and flushing the petals away. Ford and Fiddleford both call after you quizzically, but you slam the bathroom door shut on them.  


The tile floor feels like an old friend at this point. You heave in shuddery breaths, coughing out the last of the petals, but stop when you hear mumbling beyond the door.  


“... legend about throwing up flowers, ya see,” Fiddleford says. “If the person’s love ain’t unrequited, then, uh... the consequences are pretty bad.”  


“I see...” You can almost imagine Ford with a hand to his chin in thought. As soon as you entertain the idea of sopping wet Ford with his messy hair stuck to his brow you throw up again. Someone knocks on the door, calling your name.  


“Are you alright in there? You were, ah, being sick rather loudly...” Ford opens the door a crack to find you on the bathroom floor, head between your knees. He bends to your level and puts a comforting hand on your shoulder; you cough into your hand, hiding three more petals in your fist. You mumble that you’re fine, you must’ve caught something while in town running errands the other day. As vague as it gets.  


“You don’t need to lie, you know.”  


That sends your head back up to his level. You manage to keep yourself together as you maintain eye contact with him, swallowing flowers down.  


“Fiddleford told me. Hanahaki, was it? ... And here I thought it was just a legend. He said you found evidence of it from an old journal in the library?”  


You nod, but glare past Ford at Fiddleford, who makes a series of wild gestures that seem to say “don’t be a baby Ford can help with this”.  


For a couple of geniuses, these two are fairly dense.  


“I propose we do further research into your condition and find a way to cure you, as soon as possible! Can’t have one of my star research partners feeling ill in the field, hm?”  


Ford smiles, genuine and caring. With the bathroom lamp shining behind his head, his half-dry hair catches light like a halo... Which is the last thing you see before you decide to upchuck an entire bouquet of flowers into the toilet.  


This man will be the death of you.  


—————  


In-between your regular research of Gravity Falls, Ford, Fiddleford and yourself dedicate at least two hours each day to finding out more about the Hanahaki disease. It feels strange to do so much looking into what’s affected you for months; by now it feels like an unfortunate part of you. You can’t remember what life was like before the petals started erupting from somewhere within your chest.  


A few weeks after Ford found out about your condition, he bursts into the basement with a monstrous tome in his arms, lab-coat front covered in dust and his hair mussed up from running frantic fingers through it. When you and Fiddleford turn to face him, he grins; you clear your throat and six petals shoot out of your mouth. Ford rushes over and drops the book onto the table, quickly feeling your forehead and looking down your throat with a small flashlight.  


“It’s getting worse,” he murmurs, moving his hand to cup your cheek, turning your head this way and that, and oh, he’s too close and _hrk_ —  


“It’s, erm, _definitely_ getting worse.” Ford thankfully dodged out of the way of your next burst, and Fiddleford grabbed the trash can in record time to catch the flowers. You mumble an apology and scuff your shoe on the ground, unable to look anywhere else.  


“Hey, don’t get too down in the dumps!” Fiddleford valiantly tries to perk you up, shaking the wastebasket of flowers at you. “At least now we have a pretty good sample of the flowers you’re spoutin’!”  


You laugh, for the first time in a _while_ , and your colleagues laugh along with you. You turn to examine the book and miss how Fiddleford’s sad eyes follow you, glancing at Ford as he rounds the table to find the right page. He flips through a few before apparently finding what he needs.  


“Aha! Alright, I went and did some research of my own this morning since our last trail went cold—”  
Ah, yes. Something to do with leeches... You figure that’s probably not the case, as much as the doctor who owned the medical textbook might think.  


“—And I found something promising.”  


Ford points down to a lengthy paragraph on the page and adjusts his glasses, starting to read aloud:

> _“While the most well-known cure for Hanahaki is for the suffering party’s feelings to be returned, sometimes the odds are not in their favor. In these cases, the flowers within the person’s chest can be removed surgically. Several successful operations report that the flowers stopped coming, and any final petals came in coughs or sneezes instead of the more violent vomiting from previous symptoms. However, the surgery caused an unexpected side-effect to the patients in that with the removal of the flowers, the feelings towards their unrequited love were removed alongside.”_

Ford slows to a halt as the inevitable washes over you. There’s a way to get rid of the flowers— but it would get rid of your feelings for Ford, too.  


“A surgery— see? We can cure your ailment and you’ll be back to normal, right as rain! I bet I could get you in with a doctor within the next week so we can explain your situation, and perhaps—”  


No.  


“... No?”  


You won’t take the surgery. Ford blinks at you, brow furrowed as he processes it.  


“But— But you’ll _die_ if you don’t get them removed. The next sentence, look: _“Patients who refused the surgery, wishing to hold onto their longing for their lost love, unfortunately passed from suffocation when the flowers blocked their airway.”_ People _die_ from this, and there’s an easy fix that you’re _refusing?”_  


You nod, staring Ford down. Your heart sinks in your chest when you realize the look on his face reads _hurt,_ not mad. His hands curl into fists at his sides. You feel a petal on your tongue but swallow it down.  


“I don’t... understand. I don’t understand how you wouldn’t want to fix this when your life is at stake! You— You know you’ll die. The cure is _right here_ and you’re saying you don’t want it?”  


No, you don’t want the surgery. How could you? How could you surgically remove what makes your heart leap every time you see him, use a scalpel to slice into what makes you feel so calm and safe with him next to you? The flowers are a hassle, of course, but you’d rather throw up endless fields of them than lose what you’ve dreaded to admit to yourself, but what you know is true.  


You can’t tell him that. He’d feel responsible for your... Result.  


Even if... the person... doesn’t feel the same, you say, quietly choosing your words with care, your feelings are your own, and you want to keep them.  


“Even if it means dying?”  


Ford’s question comes suddenly, said in one unbelieving breath. You nod. Some things— Some _people_ are worth the risk.  
Fiddleford stays behind as Ford stomps upstairs, his bewilderment and frustration evident with each heavy footfall, and he looks at you like you sentenced yourself to your own death. Well, you guess you just did.  


“It’s him, isn’t it?”  


—————  


Ford doesn’t stop looking for alternative cures to the disease, even if you tell him you don’t want to get rid of it. He tries different herbal teas, medicines from witch doctors in the forest, even some sort of special water to make the flowers _grow_ out of you so he could pluck them, but you’re fairly certain it’s just water he paid too much for.  


Fiddleford becomes an unexpected confidant over the month following your rejection of the surgery. You knew he’d figure out who you fell in love with eventually, what with the close living quarters with your boss, but you didn’t realize he’d be so understanding about it. He says he won’t tell Ford, thank goodness, but that you need to at some point.  


“Otherwise you prob’ly _will_ die from this,” he explains, passing you your drink. “You’ll never know how he feels ’til you ask, y’know? He’s worrying ‘bout’cha.”  


You stare into your full cup and watch your reflection ripple. He has a point, you admit, but... you know Ford wouldn’t feel the same. He’s too enamored with his work to even think about harboring feelings for someone, let alone you. He’s concerned about your health, that’s true; but, you mumble, that’s only because you’re his assistant, just like Fiddleford is. If he came down with some sort of sickness like this, Ford would be just as worried.  


Fiddleford sighs, sticking his mug in the dishwasher. “If you say so. Just... be careful, alright? Ford had a point: it’s gettin’ worse.”  


You know. Nowadays you can barely look at Ford without puking at least a handful of flower petals. Taking to avoiding him makes your heart hurt, but not as much as constantly vomiting flowers does; your chest feels tighter than it did before, and you can’t stand up for as long as usual without feeling lightheaded.  


As if to prove your point, the second you get up from the kitchen table you immediately fall forwards onto your knees, gasping in struggled breaths. Fiddleford falls to your side and his hands hover over your shoulders, unsure of what to do as you clutch at your chest. You can feel flowers at the back of your throat, in the center of your chest when you try to breathe—  


_“...unfortunately passed from suffocation when the flowers blocked their airway.”_  


Not now... not _now_ — you haven’t even tried to tell—  


“Ford. We need Ford.”  


You spit up four flowers, watch them flutter down onto the linoleum.  


Fiddleford helps you to your feet and the two of you rush to Ford’s office, managing to make it down the stairs without falter. He kicks the door open with a sudden _clang_ and Ford flinches, looking up from his work to find you staggering into the room in front of him. Amidst a dropped flurry of papers, Ford circles around his desk and skids on his shins to kneel in front of you, tilting your head up with forefinger and thumb at your chin to try and help you breathe. You shy away to cough up _more_ flowers.  


“What’s going on? Are you—?”  


“Can’t breathe, the flowers— they’re stuck.” Fiddleford rapid-fire catches Ford up to speed and gets up to his feet, running out of Ford’s office and calling over his shoulder about “grabbin’ somethin’ to help”, but he turns on the ball of his foot and looks at you pointedly before he disappears down the hall.  


You grab Ford’s trash can and flowers pour into it, leaving it half-way full. Ford puts a reassuring hand on your back, but it makes you fill the rest of the trash can. You still can’t breathe.  


“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. I should’ve forced you to do the surgery, we wouldn’t have this problem, I wouldn’t—”  


You manage to argue between gasps that you don’t _want_ the surgery, and he can’t force you to get it. Ford sighs in frustration and runs a hand through his hair.  


“I can’t— Why didn’t you want this to go away? Look at you.”  


He puts his hands on either side of your face and forces you up to his gaze. His brows pull together, frown so defeated, confused. It’s the same expression he had when you initially refused the surgery, but this feels worse. He’s crying.  


You suck in a shuddery breath, tearing free from his touch and staring down into your lap. Ford drops his hands, wipes at his face; your cheeks feel cold without the contact, but the closeness made your chest feel tighter.  


“I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t you want this _gone?_ It’s hurting you! You can’t want to deal with this for the rest of your life.”  


You’re struggling for breath. Ford catches your eye and reaches out a hand, but you turn away, expecting flowers in your mouth. None come. You feel them in your throat, resisting against each breath you take. He stiffens, his hand curling into a fist as he groans in frustration.  


“You won’t be able to last much longer. If they’re getting stuck like Fiddleford said... Why didn’t you want the surgery to fix this? Who could be so important that you’re risking your life for them? Who do you love this much?”  


“You.”  


You look up at him, tears spilling over and down your cheeks. He looks utterly lost for words.  


“... Me?”  


The confession makes you breathe a little easier. Ford turns red, the color traveling down his neck.  


“It’s always been you.”  


The air is thick between you (not helpful in this situation) and you weakly cough up some of the flowers that were stuck in your airway. Ford blinks at you, owlish and stupefied, as you hang your head and cry, silent tears that make your shoulders shake. He takes a deep breath... and then takes your hand. You snap up to gape at him, puzzled. Ford stifles a snort, shaking his head and gently smearing a tear away from your cheek.  


“I’ve, ah, not been the best at showing my... feelings. Like these, anyway. Once I found out about your condition, I wanted to help you get better... Knowing full well the surgery would remove the feelings as well as the flowers, and I— forgive me— I wanted to get rid of them for you. Whoever did this to you and didn’t feel the same... It wasn’t fair. You didn’t deserve to suffer over someone who didn’t see you the way... the way I did.”  


He looks at you like you hung the moon.  


“I had no idea it was _me._ This whole time... Perhaps Fiddleford’s right. We are useless at this.”  


There’s a beat of silence before you burst into giggles, still crying in disbelief. Ford laughs with you and when you finally stop to catch your breath, you meet his eye and smile, giddy and relieved and he _loves_ you.  


And then you slap a panicked hand to your mouth as you release a much larger bunch of flowers, a sudden hurl that lands in a surprisingly neat heap on the floor. There’s dozens of them, more coming as you thump your chest and cough up the last remaining petals. You gasp and pant as the onslaught stops, but you can breathe again. The clearest you’ve breathed in what feels like forever. You go to Ford to tell him so, but find him in a tizzy over the sudden upchuck.  


“Oh no, I made it _worse?!”_  


You laugh and shake your head, putting a hand on his arm to try and calm him down. They’re gone, you reassure him— even your voice sounds different now that you can breathe properly. The flowers are gone.  


Ford scans the petals and yourself for signs of Still Dying, but his panic softens when he sees you properly. He seems surprised, for some reason; you feel him study you with curious eyes and he smiles at the flush of heat you feel on your face. You ask him what he sees and Ford takes your hand again, awestruck and loving and sweet.  


“I just... I was so focused on how sick you were before. Now that you’re alright again, I... Um.”  


He goes scarlet, rubbing the back of his neck.  


“I forgot... how beautiful you are.”  


You stare, slack-jawed, before you lurch forward and hug him, tighter than you can ever remember hugging someone. Ford laughs breathlessly, one hand cradling the back of your head as he responds to the intensity in kind. It’s a hug that knocks the wind out of both of you, but neither of you really care.  


Breathing’s overrated, anyways.

**Author's Note:**

> happy birthday, rae! thank you for commissioning me and for being a dear friend. i hope you enjoy reading this as much as i did writing it!


End file.
